Bad Parenting @ Table 3

Thai Taste, the new ramen restaurant in Springdale, is recovering from a busy lunch, a few tables still cluttered with bowls, napkins, platters, and chopsticks; the calm after the storm only recognizable to restaurant people.  I hate that I'm arriving just before closing, but I'm starving and thirsty. Thankfully delighted that the hostess seats me at a wall table - in fact, it's table number 3, denoted by the numerical sticker on the side of the napkin dispenser.  I keep expecting to hear mumbled resentful from the kitchen and service staff, a string of cross, unfamiliar Thai words interjected with "number 3"  - I can only imagine translated to "What an asshole...yeah, he's at table 3...walking in here a few minutes before we close - asshole!"   It was reminiscent of my high school days as I rose through the ranks of dishwasher, busboy, and then server at the only Thai restaurant in the Texas town I lived in.  Only then it was usually the owner, head chef cursing me for screwing up an order or being late; "Unintelligible Thai words....CASE....unintelligible Thai words....PUNK ASS....unintelligible Thai words...!"  Back then I would just nod and take it as I slid on my red silk server's blouse (yeah, I said blouse) speckled with blue flowers and chili sauce.; but not now I'm a grown man, and I swear to God,  I'll walk right the fuck out of here.   But much to my surprise, the staff are quite gracious and attentive, doting even as they tend to my needs while cleaning up the dining room. 

I order a large Thai Tea; earthy, milky, and ultra sweet - I suck it down, consuming almost half of it immediately, stopping only to breathe as I recollect our family Thai Tea debacle from nearly ten years ago.  Both daughters and I opted for lunch at Thai Diner in Fayetteville, devouring a huge meal of sushi, ramen, seaweed salad, and spring rolls, but not before engaging in an endeavor that would go down as one of my greatest fails as a father.  We each ordered a large Thai tea, at least 32 ounces of the thick, creamy, condensed milk laden drink, of which I proposed, or rather, challenged both girls who were 7 and 14 years old at that time, to see which of us could finish the beverage first. 

Georgi, the youngest, with eyes crossed loudly, quickly slurped down the last drop from her straw, easily beating Lily and me.  The issue didn't rear its ugly head until 15 minutes after leaving the restaurant as we were approaching a busy intersection with a stop light, Georgi grumbled "dad, my tummy hurts," followed by two burps, one long and deep, the other short and shallow - I fumbled to roll down her window from the front seat, just in time for her to poke her head out of the window, notice cars next to us, then with eyes bulging, frantically searching for a less embarrassing locale, retreat back inside the car to unload every last bit of our lunch, including 32 ounces of Thai Tea, all over my back seat.  When I say it looked like a crime scene, I'm not exaggerating.  As mentioned, this was not one of my proudest moments as an adult, father, or even human being; and since that infamous day, Georgi has sworn off Thai food, and Thai Tea - and honestly, who could blame her.

I was snapped out of my sad recollection as the server dropped off an order of Summer Rolls, stratified with red pork, rice, carrots, lettuce, green onions, and cilantro next to a pair of peanut and rice wine vinegar based dipping sauces.  Then came my large bowl of Tom Yum Miso Ramen, teeming with red and black specks, thick noodles, shrimp, pork, crab, egg, cilantro, and briny fishcake.  I twirled the noodles around my chopsticks, slurping and sucking everything in sight; it was divine, but I could only eat a quarter of the bowl.   Still, I was in love with the ramen at Thai Taste. 

Suddenly I was compelled - snapping a quick pic of the Thai tea, I sent it to Georgi, who is now 15,  with the caption "thirsty?" and even though she was in school I was granted an immediate response that simply said:  "I think I could give it another try."   My sweet girl.  I started hatching a plan to bring her back soon to face her culinary nemesis from all those years ago, right here at table 3; lesson learned, all is well, all is forgiven, Thai Tea Challenge 2018 - Here we come! 

Hugo's Fries

Nikki is hungry - her text urges me to "...hurry, I'm in the little shop above Hugo's and I'm starving..." I park, traverse the wintry street scene, and enter the shop, stomping and shaking off the cold just in time to hear the store owner compliment my fiend's long, shaggy, fabulous coat.  Great - impromptu fashion flattery means only one thing.  Fifteen minutes later we exit with hands full of bags. 

We descend the stairs to the iconic Hugo’s - the screen door slams shut behind us -  the restaurant is crowded - there's a wait list, so we find our way to the crowded bar - I have every intention of ordering a drink even though it's only 12:25pm on a Tuesday - seems wrong not to.  I order a Bourbon and Ginger as we shed our coats, scarves, and hats and adhere them to our stools and under bar hooks.   Hugo's is a godsend, chock full of cramped locals - it's loud, warm, and familiar.  The bartender is slightly aloof and tired, perfect - she orders a disappointing, watery domestic beer. 

I order a basket of their iconic fries - with malt vinegar.  Don't forget the fucking malt vinegar, hipster, slightly aloof, yawning bartender.  We chat and sip our drinks as the local, huddled masses clap us on the back, wink, and inadvertently bump into our backs - my gray Trapper hat with fuzzy flaps stays atop my head - with furrowed brow she tells me I look "..homeless with that hat..."

Hugo’s is one of my favorite restaurants in Arkansas; important meals, arguments, life moments have occurred here since I arrived to attend the university in the early nineties. My first date after moving to town, countless family dinners with my daughters, the cultivation of successful and failed business deals, falling in love and breaking up…all part of not only my connection to this basement eatery, but just about everybody living, loving in Fayetteville.

The fries arrive - piled high and steaming in a basket on parchment - it's her first time so she watches as I cover our basket with fragrant malt vinegar, then carefully position a small, white ceramic plate covered in a large pool of ketchup - the first fry is not only sans ketchup, and dripping with vinegar, but also the hottest - salty, crispy skin with creamy interior that releases more steam heat with my first bite - I spend the next ten seconds simultaneously exhaling and speaking because the top of my mouth is a millisecond from being blistered - but I don't care - it's part of the process, the ritual, the algorithm for attaining culinary nirvana in Fayetteville, Arkansas.    My friend with the pink hair and shaggy white coat painlessly contends "...my God, these are incredible..."  No shit - these are Hugo's Fries.